


a losing battle is raging

by gabriphales



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alcohol, Character Study, Dissociation, Drug Use, Graphic Description, Guilt, Hurt No Comfort, Insecurity, Internal Conflict, Internal Monologue, M/M, Religious Guilt, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Straight Razors, like a lot of it, or very little comfort that is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-13 04:48:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28897656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gabriphales/pseuds/gabriphales
Summary: taken aback by crowley's appearance at the church, and how deeply he still seems to care for him, despite their fight a hundred years prior, aziraphale is wracked with guilt. he finds himself deserving of punishment, and is willing to inflict it when the universe is not
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Kudos: 13





	a losing battle is raging

**Author's Note:**

> OKAY SO you clicked on this huh ?? idk why you would but if youre here for unadulterated 3k words whump hell of pure projection its what youre gonna get. mature rating and violence warnings are for graphic descriptions of c/tting, based on personal experience. apologies in advance, aziraphale is a comfort character i heavily identify with, therefore he must suffer every time i feel a single emotion
> 
> the c/tting segment itself is rather short, so if you want to read an emotional breakdown, but skip the nasty bits, stop at the paragraph that begins with, _'once he's folded his trousers neatly aside,'_ and start up again at, _"well, now he's gone and done it,'_
> 
> have fun !! or don't, it's not exactly a pleasant read

his heart twists in on itself, writhing like a kicked dog, a puppy pleading for forgiveness at the feet that stomped its bones broken, when he sees crowley. his thin frame engulfed in sharp, slick clothes, a suit worthy of the suave persona he carries himself with. he’s trying very hard to stay level-headed, appearing calm, _cool,_ but aziraphale sees past it for what it is. his jolts, his little hops, and the cracks in his voice. though his eyes are hidden, as they always seem to be - except with aziraphale, except in the quiet nights of solitude and wine they used to share - aziraphale can nearly feel the way they squint in on themselves as he winces. his demon, his beloved, in pain - and for him. despite everything, it's all for him.

a locking sensation squeezes around his gut, wrenching his stomach with a dangerous tug, and he feels the familiar pull of nausea in the back of his throat. his guilt is impossibly weighted, heavy, and it sinks into him deeper until his head is light and the conversations flitting past him don't register as much as they ought to. 

only when crowley says, “just didn't want to see you _embarrassed,”_ does aziraphale click into his surroundings once more. it lasts for a moment, a terrible, sharp-edged moment, where all the reality of his situation bears down upon him with crooked teeth and claws. his insides feel burnt raw, and he tries not to sob, not to make a spectacle of himself when he realizes, in his delirium, he’d forgotten his prized possessions, his _books._ foolish as he is, he deserves it. all the ashen pages and torn covers he can torment himself with picturing over and over, in a vicious, circular cycle; he's earned that fate immensely well.

but he doesn't deserve crowley’s pity, no, not after all he's done. so he works to keep himself together, even as his thoughts catch up to him.

_’a hundred years, and you didn't check up on him. didn't think to call, to send letters, to telegram or telephone - and you justified it to yourself. saying if he didn't make amends first, it's no weight on your shoulders. but it is, it is, it is it is it is it is - ‘_

but then crowley’s hand is touching his own. he recognizes it before he processes what’s been pressed between his fingers; a handle, and only slightly smoked briefcase. his hand doesn't linger, and the departure feels like nails digging into his skin, scraping away. crowley’s eyes are golden and shimmering behind his shades, they glow like amber stones in the moonlight. and he _smiles,_ he quirks that straight-lined frown up at the edges, just to say, “little demonic miracle of my own.”

aziraphale can hardly even breathe without feeling the guilt flood him everywhere, the remorse, the _shame._ crowley has always been too kind to him, too undeserving of the fickle back-and-forth aziraphale gives him in return. his eyes are welling up, they're warm around the edges, spilling over like flooded canyons, and he wills himself back to the safety of silence, not saying anything at all. because of _course_ that's all he can offer crowley. of course he can't even bother with a _’thank you.’_ he’s a terrible person, a terrible angel, terrible, terrible, _terrible._

“lift home?” crowley asks him, because even his hospitality is a concern, a possible danger - what if they were to be _seen_ together, what if they were - well - aziraphale can't imagine god’s vision is turned upon them at this very moment. with desecrated rubble left of the once sacred building, it's nothing more than an unfortunate reminder of the almighty’s apathy. he steps along the crooked stones, and takes crowley’s hand when he offers it in support, guiding him down to solid footing.

by the time they reach the bentley, aziraphale is separating from his body once more. like binary fission, he's split in two. his fingers reach out, but crowley finds the door handle before him, popping the car door open, and leading him inside with an arm against his back.

“this way, angel. just relax, word is i’m an excellent driver.” he grins, all teeth, and no tongue, he isn't laughing - aziraphale wants to see him laugh. he wants to see him relax. so he gives it a shot - he tries his best.

“and whose word might that be?” he asks, the prick of cheek in his tone feeling more like an iron dagger when his guilt doubles down. crowley gives him what he's after, regardless, as he so often does. when everything else has fallen miles too short, crowley is always there for him. 

he wants to give something back, he wants - he _wants._ he isn't sure what he's wanting, but it's hot and it burns in his chest, it sullies him from the inside out. he's encased in the bitter feeling, that miserable, unfulfilled desire to return, repair, _reparate._

“we’re here, angel.” crowley’s voice slips through the murk of his internal monologue. the car reels to a halt, the engine still grumbling, its vibrations climbing through the leather seats. aziraphale presses a palm to the texture, grounding himself so he might ghost back into his body. with a small sigh, he stands, and allows crowley to help him from the passenger seat - it’s the least he can do. 

“ _well,”_ crowley drags the vowel out, his lips stretching thin as he grimaces. “s’ppose i ought to, y’know, report back to head office. let them know what i’ve been up to. bombing a church doesn't exactly go unnoticed down there, y'know.”

“oh, but they weren't really _your_ bombs.” aziraphale says, for reasons he's not quite clear on. somehow, it's comforting to peel crowley apart from the terror of earth, to revel in his outsider status, how he doesn't provoke, only pretends - pretending he's behind human schemes that drive him to drinking, to trying to _forget._

they have too much in common, aziraphale thinks, to be put here by accident. somehow, for some ineffable reason, he's meant to be near crowley, for them to exist as synchronized, mirror images. 

the guilt tears into him once more.

“you’ll be safe on the way home, then?” aziraphale prods more from crowley, wanting to dwell in his presence for as long as he can. his warmth is an overwhelming glow, the orange-burn outline of light cast by candle. aziraphale is willing to let the wax melt, so long as he can hold his hands over the flame. 

crowley smiles at him, overly saccharine, too sweet - “aw, angel, didn't know you cared about me that much.”

and he pats at aziraphale’s shoulder, squeezes for good measure, but aziraphale doesn't feel it. the cold disconnect between them lengthens, and his skull brims to the top with _fire._ he can't breathe, he nearly chokes, “ri-ight then, goodnight, dear fellow.”

crowley is leaving, crowley is leaving, leaving, and then, he is gone. the bookshop door clicks shut, with aziraphale feeling rather like whatever exists outside is a constantly shifting, metamorphosis of danger. he wants to tuck crowley back within him, wrap him up in the confines of his overcoat, close to his chest. he’d be safe that way, with a fidgety heartbeat, and aziraphale’s unsteady breaths as his cradle to rock him to sleep. _oh,_ heaven forgive him, he wants to _protect_ crowley. but he can't, he _can't,_ and that's all his own doing. try as he may to balance their necessary distance - the distance that ensures both their lives go untouched by what’s watching above and below - with crowley’s need to be appreciated, _loved,_ he simply fails at every instance.

the room feels dull around him now. all the details, all his little trinkets are blurry, out of focus. he feels as if they’d crumble on impact, were he to touch them. or, perhaps, he might pass right through, his fingers slipping out of material reality.

_alright, he’ll be fine, he just has to calm down._

as eager as his joints are to be driven sore with anxious pacing again, he heads to the back of the shop instead. unlocking the backroom, and digging through the shelves to find what he's truly after; there, that's it, he's almost got it, just a little bit further - 

tucked behind a stack of worn-down, frayed-cover encyclopedias, is an equally ancient bottle of medicine. at least, they called it medicine back then. procured sometime in the eighteen-hundreds, and nursed at since then on rough nights nearly as rough as this one in particular, it labels itself as cough syrup. but, truly, the ingredients seem more purposed towards knocking the drinker out entirely. he reads the thinning paper on the back, and its list of simple pleasures - _alcohol, cannabis, chloroform, morphia_ \- well, he’ll be sleeping well tonight. 

without leading himself too far down the path of doubting his decision, he tilts his head back, and has a good few chugs. just enough to leave his mouth stinging with it, the slightly soured taste of something that ought to have gone bad quite a while ago, were it not being kept well by heavenly blessings. screwing the cap back in place, he finds his hands have already lessened their errant trembles. though when he pricks his finger on the sharp edge of the lid, the sensation is numbed, more of a tickle than anything else. curiously, his eyes focus in on the slowly forming petal of red that blossoms on his fingertip. 

lights reflect on the smooth curve, a dot of white shine making it appear all the more entrancing. like this, aziraphale’s mind goes quiet, his head empty, pleasantly empty. all he has to do is watch the blood as it trickles down his finger, leaving a crooked, wavy path that reminds him of streams splitting through a meadow. 

he plucks a silk handkerchief from his pocket, dabbing the blood up. when his eyes grace the stain left behind - a blotch of streaked red, fat in the center, bloated and full of pride - he can't help savoring how nicely it stands out from the white fabric. and he feels a little satisfied with himself. this one minor injury is a comeuppance he deserves. he’s paying the price of all that he's done, all he's allowed to happen. 

( _the children flooded, abandoned by noah and god. the streets full of people sickly, struck by a plague. the dead, the dead, the dead whose bodies lay entrenched beneath dirt, stacked in piles, suffocated, disrespected even when all their life has been so cruelly stolen from them.)_

he’s getting lightheaded with it.

he wasn't permitted to help in any manner beyond his station, in any way that might differ from the almighty’s plans, her wants for these people. 

but, on the nights where his mouth still tastes of syrup, and his thoughts are buzzing at a frequency higher than he can collect, he allows himself to wonder why anybody should be made to suffer whatsoever.

the guilt pounds harder now, a grandfather clock chiming in his head, church bells ringing hard enough to make his ears shake. he clutches at his scalp, hoping to dull the throbbing pain. but it does nothing, nothing, and he _deserves_ this, doesn't he? he’s hurt people, hurt crowley, hurt the only friend he has left. after all the others waste away, fading into the quiet of a passing aziraphale can only pray them through, crowley is still here with him. he needs crowley, _needs_ him to be okay. even worse, he needs to be _liked_ by him. but he's done so much to be disliked. always acting stuffy, stuck-up, quite literally holier-than-thou. he’s nothing but a rotten _brat._ and he doesn't understand how crowley’s tolerated him for this long.

his fingertip is stinging again. and somehow, within the burden of it, the constant shock of nerves, he makes a home. he feels sheltered, protected, _safe._

and isn’t that selfish, for him to chase after what he wants to provide for crowley, and swallow it all down himself.

he shivers in the cool air. the shop isn't warm without a miracle or two, or the natural heat of logs in his fireplace. and though it would be easy to snap his fingers, lighting a blaze in previously nonexistent embers, he doesn't. instead, he pads over to the chaise like he's treading water, clumsy and slow, frightened for what might happen should he carry himself with any confidence, any speed. when he sits down, he sinks into the cushions like a melting parfait, his eyes hot, teary, the lock holding him together cracking open at last. he sobs, whimpering with weak, breath-starved snivels as he tries to gasp for air. he sounds like he's choking; he must look the part quite well. because his cheeks are wet, slick to the point his knuckles rub sore and chafed in his efforts to wipe the tears away. 

he reaches for the handkerchief, hoping to dry his eyes for as long as the cloth can hold all his terror. but then, then he spots the blood once more, and his chest feels tight, like he's anticipating something - 

he wants to see more of it. he wants to do the dirty work for god, the labor of punishing sinners. and though it feels awfully childish, an infantile, adolescent-prone way of bringing himself to justice, he supposes it’ll do the trick just fine. 

with a flick of his fingers, and a miracle that, for some unfortunate reason, is granted by the powers that be, his antique straight razor is popped into his lap, straight from the bathroom. with an ornately carved handle of celluloid, and unused metal, considering aziraphale has never bothered growing a beard he might later regret, it's perfect for the task at hand. pulling the blade exposed, he hesitates, and thinks - 

_’on the wrists is too obvious,’_ he decides. _’what if i’m doomed to rolling up my sleeves whilst in pleasant, sensitive-mannered company?’_ he’ll go for his thighs instead.

the whole process is wrought with opportunities for backing out, pausing and leaving the blade for another night, a worse night, a night some implausible time in the future, because once he starts this - 

once he starts this, it won't be easy to undo. 

even so, that churning feeling still ripens in his gut. like the child’s rumor of swallowed apple seeds growing a whole tree inside the body they’ve claimed, aziraphale stretches his legs out with wiry, branch-stiff veins. his trousers are vintage, as everything he owns is. how he loves to surround himself with knick-knacks that have outlived the people he’d procured them from. he’ll be careful not to stain a single thing. he wouldn't want to disrespect their memory.

once he's folded his trousers neatly aside, he kicks his shoes off as well, finding them unsightly against a backdrop of bare skin. grounding himself with his stocking-clad feet against the rug below, toes digging in, he makes the first cut.

the blade swipes across his skin, in a glint of striking pain so fast he second-guesses if he's even left a mark whatsoever, until the first stripe of red seeps forwards. peeking out in a thin line, as if even his insides, his vital sources of life, were desperate to escape him. something itches beneath the flesh. he flicks the blade over his thigh once more, and winces. it's painful, the surrounding area afflicted with a patchy flush. skin grows puffy around the cuts, as they increase in number, length, depth. blood dots the surface cuts, peering delicately through. but beneath that is a soft, pale white that shows when he parts his skin open, gaping slightly. he watches, taken fully by a morbid intrigue, as the blood floods his little valley like a rushing stream. it's revolting. it's pathetic. it's what he deserves.

only when his wrist quivers too hard for him to maintain a steady grip does he stop. miracling a washcloth from the bathroom, pre-wetted, and soaking over his wounds.

well, now he's gone and done it, hasn't he? he ought to be feeling awfully accomplished, proud of himself. but as sweet as the relief had been in his moments of action, now that his head is cooler, and his leg still aflame, he settles into something like _shame._ how _shameful,_ for an angel, a heavenly servant of the lord, to be stooping so low. desecrating the material form he’s been gifted out of generosity alone. he's mutilated himself; he's dirty now, tainted, _ugly._

but when he lifts the towel aside, and snaps his fingers, nothing left to serve as evidence for his foul crime disappears. heart dropping, shooting into his stomach, he tries once more. nothing. there's nothing he can do to get rid of these. he’s stuck with his poor decisions.

the worst of it comes when he realizes, cruelly, that while curling in on himself, knees to his chest as he sobs, his body is aching after crowley. yearning for that familiar comfort, the warmth of protective arms, and a kind, loving touch. he feels so pitiful like this, vulnerable, and something - something about that makes it _better._ almost worth the trouble. because like this, he's repented, he's served his penance well. and now he's a helpless, trembling little thing. through the suffering, the masochistic drive, he can earn crowley’s forgiveness. and in turn, his help.

all he's ever wanted is to deserve crowley’s unending devotion.

after a bit of dwindling, he makes it his goal to telephone crowley once he's dressed himself presentably. unbuttoning his waistcoat, and slipping off his undershirt, he moves as though he were preparing for bed. behind his bedroom door, there's a cotton sleeping gown on the other side, with buttons up to the collar, and a hem that ends below his knees. surely, it will cover anything he needs hidden. he slips it on slowly, the shame crawling up through his limbs, making it a tedious, tiring process. everything feels so poorly done, inadequate. he isn't doing anything right. every buttonhole too small, and every flinch of his fingers a foreign presence taking over. 

still, with a wooly sweater thrown over his shoulders, the coarse material scratching at his neck, he breathes in, and settles himself. slippers on, and a small blanket perched atop his arm, held to his chest like a treasured, soul-resigned comfort, he heads to the kitchen, and starts the kettle boiling. a hot cocoa can’t hurt, after all.

pacing through his home, he feels like a ghost. when his eyes catch the white gauze appearance of his own reflection in mirrors, passing by glass, he looks a perfect fit for the role. his blue eyes are pale, shadowed by lavender stains beneath his lower lids. clumped together by tears, and still faintly wet, his lashes shine like a porcelain doll’s. he’s reminded of victorian romanticism, how death huddled itself so tightly within every home, the humans often fought to make it into something beautiful. perhaps, he's doing the same for himself now. 

his hand hovers over the telephone, fingers trembling to curve around the blocky frame, marred by hesitance. with a sharp push from whatever remnants of a warrior’s, a _guardian’s_ determination he has left, he snatches the handle a little too fiercely, and rings crowley’s number.

“ _angel,_ ” crowley’s voice sounds drowsy, thick with sleep, and only then does aziraphale think to check the clock, and see how much time has passed. it's been hours, the number of which he can't quite make out. nevertheless, he gnaws as it lower lip, and carries on. crowley will be understanding. he always is. 

“‘s two in the morning, what’d’you need?” he grumbles, yawning in a deep, gravely voice that twists something warm in aziraphale’s stomach. _not now,_ he reminds himself.

“a friend,” aziraphale admits, stacking the pout in his tone on high. he knows crowley will hear his pleading eyes through the wires, he doesn't need to see them to tell they’re there. “some company, if you don't mind.”

“i’ll be right there,” crowley starts up, scrambling from his bed so quickly aziraphale can hear him from the moment his feet hit the floor. “you're not hurt, are you?”

and aziraphale swallows his guilt for the last time that evening, shifting his focus to other matters. matters of him and crowley on the chaise together. the blanket shared between them; crowley dozing off against his shoulder. he pinches his tongue with his teeth, chews at his inner cheek, and tells himself it's only a little white lie.

“no, i’m alright. simply missing you, my dear. that's all.”

crowley’s next inhale is shaky. aziraphale knows he understands. he knows they both share the same want, the same burden of feeling.

“‘course, be right there.” crowley repeats. “pop a bottle of that nice chardonnay you’ve got shelved for me, won’t you? and i’ll drive the speed limit, just for you.”

“thank you,” aziraphale whispers. “you’ll be here soon?”

“faster than you can think it, angel.”

**Author's Note:**

> ive been too deathly insecure to check my comments lately so feel free to go wild and post the whole bee movie script in there, enjoy yourselves. and again, a second apologies for posting mostly fluff and smut and then whatever the blasted unholy hell this is. sometimes you just gotta vent 💕 take care of yourselves !!


End file.
